The Whim of the Dead
by Gleam
Summary: Namikaze Minato - who gave his soul to a crueler master than the one his bargain sealed away. The Shinigami's price is not paid. Not yet.


**The Whim of the Dead**

~*~

_Namikaze Minato - who chained his soul to not one, but two immortal beings for all time. Who traded his own mortality and birthright to reincarnation for the enslavement of the great demon, the Ninetails, at the hands of the God of Death._

_Bargains with the Nether be struck at prices greater than any mortal ken, Minato. Your suffering will not end yet._

_Your price is not yet paid._

_Arise, with the beast you have chained, and serve the whim of the dead._

_~*~_

It had not felt as long as a single second of peace when Minato opened his eyes, and realized he was falling.

The comprehension took him longer than it should have, and by the time he thought to look down, the ground should have taken him already - but the earth was gone, replaced by a limitless nothing and a limitless expanse of brackish water, flowing downward. A sharp glance to either side revealed hundreds of other pale bodies, men and women alike, plummeting on the inevitable current, and the Yondaime realized that this was something he should have never seen - this was the river of Yomi, the current of human reincarnation.

Mythology stated the river flowed three ways to divide the souls of the dead, and damned as he was, Minato still knew what duty was, and that he would fight to his very last breath to ensure that duty was discharged. It was his _ka_ - to protect the village whose name he could not even remember anymore, as the river stripped away the memories of the living in order to prepare them for the realm of the dead.

Weakly at first, then with increasing strength, Minato struggled towards the middle fork, towards the unceasing light that the water seemingly vanished into at the heart of the river. From either flank he could feel heat - painful, searing heat on his left, girdled in scorching screams, and a far more peaceful warmth on his right, heralded by songbirds. His thoughts strayed to neither. Only the light of _U-sharib_, the Whittler of Souls, filled his heart, and he swam for a timeless age.

The bodies beside him drifted to either side, slowly, and vanished into the forks of Yomi. Minato felt his head emerge from the water, and gasped for breath that felt as if it had been denied to him for years. He let his muscles relax as he drifted into the tiny inlet that was marked only by a small cottage, and a smattering of tiny bodies laid on the sand like driftwood. The Yondaime closed his eyes and rested.

In time, he felt a great, callused hand lift him up, and he managed to crack an eye, but only one - for the light of _U-sharib _was bright, and it hurt his eyes. He thought he might have seen the outline of a face etched in wrinkles, sun, and sand; a smile ageless and patient, toothless, and untamed by infirmity. He saw the knife, which had no edge, and cut only with the weight of truth.

Minato closed his eyes again and smiled, for he had lived well, and had no fear of the truth. And indeed, the knife did not cut him, but carved away the heartaches, the aches and pains that all men carry in life. Under the Whittler's gentle blade, Minato felt himself made anew, and drew air into his lungs that felt more fresh than any he had ever breath - the first breath all souls draw.

"I wish -" Minato whispered, silently, and it seemed to him as if the god had stopped to listen; "I wish I had thought - to bargain with you, Whittler."

There was a silence for a time, and the Whittler's knife was still.

_**{A Man-Soul belongeth to one only} **_came the answer, and there was a weight in it that made tears trickle down Minato's cheeks - the sorrow of a god marred his soul for but a moment, and then the knife carved it away, for the Whittler was a careful craftsman.

Then Minato felt a little handle slip into his hand, and he turned to peer down at it through tear-encrusted eyes; it was a wooden handle with no blade, and only a word inscribed where the blade would be. The word was one he could not read.

_**{But Will belongeth to no-thing but Man}**_Minato heard the Whittler say. The mortal whispered, with his dry, cracked lips, a blessing for _U-sharib_, the words of which are secret. But the god smiled and lifted Minato up in his hands, spreading the dream-light, wooden wings he had carved from the aching bones of Minato.

_**{Fly now to whence KA calls}**__U-Sharib _said, and set Minato aloft on the winds of the sea.

And though the waters of Yomi had washed away the memories of this place, Minato always remembered the smiling, wrinkled face, and hoped to return there someday - to the heart of the river, where all is made new.

~*~

_I could not stop for Death /_

_so he kindly stopped for me._

_-Emily Dickenson_

_~*~_

Minato opened his mouth and let out a cry, and was born.

And although of his early years, he remembers little - always he will remember the color of weeping red, and the screams, and the burning of his stomach while the sound of rushing water roars in his years.

He forgets his name, and it is not long before he learns a new one to fit in its place.

And the Shinigami waited, and laughed.


End file.
